


Untouchable

by Zimraphel



Series: tolkien ficlets [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: RAGGGGGHHH - quoth Elladan, The El-twins rediscover their Finwean Heritage, and fervently wish to avoid being depicted in gold-plated wood with a smarmy smile, in part because they're just so goddamn pissed off, that they still encounter statues dedicated to Finrod the Saviour in random human villages, the elves pass from the world BUT MAKE IT METAL, they burn everything to the ground before departing on the very last ship to depart for Aman, which is to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimraphel/pseuds/Zimraphel
Summary: Elrond's twins wait almost too long to depart, halfway out of the world already-- but what they leave behind, they burn.(Leave no false halo left to glow amid the embers of your ruin).-[another ancient ficlet formerly uploaded on LJ]
Relationships: Elladan & Elrohir (Tolkien)
Series: tolkien ficlets [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042965
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Untouchable

Maybe it is their Finwean blood making itself known after all these years - maybe it is something different altogether. Maybe it is not even the loneliness, but the estrangement from their own tales that made them do it.

  
  
But here they are, as beautiful as their myths, twin gods of destruction ( _"Hear, monster-slaying twins, stars of dawn, children of Morning herself; come to rescue hapless maidens and thankful old crones alike, sing of them 'o muse, o mighty first-begotten, two-fold, one egg-born, and wand'ring thro' the air, thy rapid dart can raise the hair upright and shake the heart of man with wild afright, sudden, unconquer'd, holy-"_ )  
  
And there is no one left to stop them.  
  
The buildings burn and collapse upon themselves before animals can make new homes in them, and the tales become silent. There are many dangers hidden in the world, but longing for what once was will not be the burden of Men, they say. There will be nothing left to gauge the greatness of the past by, and even in the time when myths still walked the green earth did people not call them myths already? They are eager to believe they are alone for now, the only real thing in the world apart from the gods.   
  
Of course, it is not enough.

-

  
  
There will always be hidden treasures and half-whispered tales of Elven ancestors. Eventually there will still be myths of a golden, greater time. In less content times, likely. In too-content times too, when the world will seem to become smaller and smaller.

  
But at least _their_ names have been erased from it, not twisted into something strange and untouchable. It is the last thing they do before they finally, finally set sail, not much more than wrathful ghosts, barely able to steer their ship, almost passing right through the solid, earth-born wood of their vessel, able to embrace only each other still (and feel it and feel real - they are a legend even among the orcs, a terrible face to look upon, an omen of death for them and a legend among the Edain; maidens' arms don't embrace but raise in prayer, or lie prostrate on the floor, trembling in worship or terror, perhaps both. They leave food and drink for them, elaborate dinners, but outside, as if to ward off vengeful spirits. Elrohir in particular has never understood why they would do this if they truly believed them to be restless spirits refusing summons, because then why would they want to eat? But there are many human customs the Eldar have never really understood and this is just one of the many). 

-  
  
In a village not far from where they set sail, the inhabitants raise a new statue of the yellow sun god, painted golden all over and covered in freshly woven flower wreaths. An astute observer might have remarked his nose has a remarkably familiar arc, and the indulgent smile certainly is spot on despite the many generations that have since come and gone. It holds a harp, smiling benignly at every passerby. Some make an elaborate gesture as they pass it, leave flowers or chant a prayer. 

  
  
At midwinter, they sacrifice a strong bull to it, pouring its blood over the golden feet of the statue.

  
  
Careful not to touch that which is holy. 


End file.
